Fahrenheit 451 a Prose Poem?
ChrisL wrote a gorgeous post about rediscovering Ray Bradbury.
When I was a teenager, in the course of a few years I gobbled books by all the masters of science fiction — Heinlein, Asimov, Bradbury, Harlan Ellison — paying more attention to plot than prose. That was mostly appropriate, both as a 13-year-old and because for most, what made the books special was their exquisite and inventive plots. I know I read Fahrenheit 451: what I remembered most vividly was the ending scenes of old men whispering excerpts to one another, which is where its stellar plot takes you. After I left the boys behind for a more varied literary canon, I lumped Bradbury in with the others and never looked back.
This week, the book came into my hands almost accidentally. “OK, how come no one told me he’s a poet?” I asked Rachel, astonished by its first pages.
I’ll have to go back and reread it. I remember being scared by the idea of books being destroyed. Not just spooked, but horrified on a deeper, visceral level. Yikes!
